Conan and Old Crem
by ChrisLAdams
Summary: In the hills of far Cimmeria . . . Conan and his band of cutthroats perform a daring night raid in the heady days of their youth when none were safe from the ravages of... Conan the Raider. This whimsical piece of flash fiction doesn't take itself too seriously. Originally posted on SwordsOfREH as A short, lively tale of Conan, Nov 8, 2017.


Conan and Old Crem

A Tale of Conan of Cimmeria

Chris L Adams

Originally posted on _SwordsOfREH_ as _A short, lively tale of Conan_ _,_ Nov 8, 2017.

Conan, together with two others from his village, crouched in the darkness beneath a mass of dense, overhanging foliage. His eyes intent on their target, he tapped Komac lightly on his shoulder.

"Komac. At my signal—throw wide the gate."

As silent as a whisper, Komac slipped from Conan's side, twisting expertly to avoid branches none but a hillman might see in the strict darkness of this cloudy night, his form invisible in the murky shadow that overlay the land.

"You have the coals?" Crimac nodded his head. "Right here," he replied.

"Then come."

The two took a different route from Komac, twisting through the forest toward the stoop of a low structure. In one hand Conan clutched an object, and on his face was a grim smile. His sword, loose in its scabbard, was ready at hand.

From his position near the gate, Komac dimly watched the front of the structure. He could see nary a sign of his companions, and eagerly awaited the fire that would signal him to action.

Quietly, the two Cimmerians slipped onto the stoop, crouching low to distribute their weight evenly, hoping no boards creaked beneath their combined weight. They were in luck—no tell-tale noises came from their passage. Having reached the point where they were to enact their plan, they squatted, Conan holding his dense object at the ready while Crimac readied his fire-coals.

Lightly blowing on them, they began glowing like miniature suns in the bronzium fire-carrier he held. Taking a pair of tiny tongs from his waist pouch, Conan, leering from ear to ear now, set several hot coals about the object he'd carried miles through the woods to this small structure on the outskirts of their country. With a whoosh it caught flame—the signal for which Komac awaited.

With a shout and a harshly barked laugh, Komac threw wide the gate, clapping his hands loudly several times. With many squeals and grunts a herd of mountain goats, shrilling loudly, began plunging through the gate, scattering far and wide as they exited their pen.

Laughing loudly, Conan and Crimac exited the stoop, leaving behind them the object they'd carried from their village—a large, dry sack that was now engulfed in flames.

Reconvening at their bush and stifling their guffaws with effort, they did not have long to wait. "There's old Crem now," Conan whispered.

"What they hays going on out here?" a loud voice bellowed. "Oh, Crom!"

Avidly, the man began stomping the fire out on his front stoop. From every angle mountain goats ran hither and thither, leaping and bounding from every object. Several ran into Crem as he, cursing, stomped the flames out in his efforts to prevent the structure from becoming engulfed in flames.

At one point his beard caught fire. In his labors he at last stomped a hole through the ancient boards, driving his foot and the yet-burning and smoldering sack into the darkness beneath the stoop. Cursing, he was fighting to retrieve his foot which had become ensnared in the splintered boards when the smell hit him. Dung—of the most virulent kind.

"What foulness is afoot?" he screamed wrathfully. "Blasted inflammatory barbarous reeking…!"

Unable any longer to control their mirth, Conan and the other youths exploded in laughter as they fled the scene of their attack. Seeing the reflections from the flaming sack on their naked backs, and recognizing them from the not-distant village, Crem, his yells reaching the heavens, screamed and cursed.

"Conan—you wretched barbarian! I see you. And Komac! Wait till I tell you maws and paws! Crom cut your sacks, you sons of—"

More quiet than vapours, the youths slipped back into the village and resumed their beds. Their midnight raid a success, they dreamed dreams of the days when they would ride to battle with their fathers. But for the time, these five year olds would pretend-raid on old Crem's farm house—until their parents beat them for doing so, that is.


End file.
